Then the call came and we went into the ring.  Bill was desperate.  He fought like a tiger, a madman.  He was fair crazy.  He was fighting for more than I was fighting for.  I was a rising fighter, and I was fighting for the money and the recognition.  But Bill was fighting for life—­for the life of his loved ones.

Well, condition told.  The strength went out of him, and I was fresh as a daisy.  “What’s the matter, Bill?” I said to him in a clinch.  “You’re weak.”  “I ain’t had a bit to eat this day,” he answered.  That was all.

By the seventh round he was about all in, hanging on and panting and sobbing for breath in the clinches, and I knew I could put him out any time.  I drew back my right for the short-arm jab that would do the business.  He knew it was coming, and he was powerless to prevent it.

“For the love of God, Bob,” he said; and—­[Pause.]

MAUD.  Yes?  Yes?

FITZSIMMONS. I held back the blow.  We were in a clinch.

“For the love of God, Bob,” he said again, “the misses and the kiddies!”

And right there I saw and knew it all.  I saw the hungry children asleep, and the missus sitting up and waiting for Bill to come home, waiting to know whether they were to have food to eat or be thrown out in the street.

“Bill,” I said, in the next clinch, so low only he could hear.  “Bill, remember the La Blanche swing.  Give it to me, hard.”

We broke away, and he was tottering and groggy.  He staggered away and started to whirl the swing.  I saw it coming.  I made believe I didn’t and started after him in a rush.  Biff!  It caught me on the jaw, and I went down.  I was young and strong.  I could eat punishment.  I could have got up the first second.  But I lay there and let them count me out.  And making believe I was still dazed, I let them carry me to my corner and work to bring me to. [Pause.]

Well, I faked that fight.

MAUD. [Springing to him and shaking his hand.] Thank God!  Oh!  You are a man!  A—­a—­a hero!

FITZSIMMONS. [Dryly, feeling in his pocket.] Let’s have a smoke. [He fails to find cigarette case.]

MAUD.  I can’t tell you how glad I am you told me that.

FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] Forget it. [He looks on table, and fails to find cigarette case.  Looks at her suspiciously, then crosses to desk at right and reaches for telephone.]

MAUD. [Curiously.] What are you going to do?

FITZSIMMONS. Call the police.

MAUD.  What for?

FITZSIMMONS. For you.

MAUD.  For me?

FITZSIMMONS. You are not Harry Jones.  And not only are you an impostor, but you are a thief.

MAUD. [Indignantly.] How dare you?

FITZSIMMONS. You have stolen my cigarette case.

MAUD. [Remembering and taken aback, pulls out cigarette case.] Here it is.

FITZSIMMONS. Too late.  It won’t save you.  This club must be kept respectable.  Thieves cannot be tolerated.